O Me Miserum

Okay, let's see. I've had a biopsy, teeth removed, tube and valve inserted. I seen the Radio and Chemo therapists. The Dietician, the Hearing Specialist, the Nutritionist and Speech Therapist. They've injected me with radioactive materials then checked the reaction of my kidney. They've stuck needles in my neck repeatedly a la Takashi Miike's Audition (and the doc was an Oriental woman - reassuring). I have had CT UD and MRI scans. I think I'm ready for the Main Attraction

Let the real fun start.

Actually week one was pretty much a blur. The chemo made sure of that. You are left with very little equilibrium and no energy at all. It feels like someone has put a hand inside you and pulled out the duracells. Any effort at all results in utter exhaustion, so that brushing you teeth becomes a mammoth task and you need to have a lie down afterwards. Being an idle bastard you would think that this would suit me, but no, it's disabilitating and for the first time I'm beginning to feel like an invalid. I have to cross roads at traffic lights, can't run for buses. I feel old.

Happily this passes within about a week, unhappily as it goes it nods hello to the side effects of the radiotherapy on their way in. They did warn me that that there was no hard and fast on this but I was hoping for about three or four weeks before this shit happened - nothing doing. The inside of my mouth feels like a car crash. Not really sure what's going on in there - frightened to look - but it's painful. I'm still manfully struggling with soups and custards but it's getting harder to open my mouth to put stuff in. It's frustrating and wears you out. I can bear the pain long enough to get several mouthfuls of solid food in but after a few the pain arm wrestles the hunger down and wins again. Back to the milk shakes.

I've almost given up smoking since each fag is now an exercise in masochism. Light up, inhale, mouth goes on fire, stub it out. Same with booze. Nothing to do with willpower My booze appetite gland has been knocked out by the therapy so I have no desire at all for alcohol. I've had the odd half here and there but didn't really want those. Now this is strange. NO DESIRE TO DRINK. Someone is re-programming me. Maybe I'll sober up and become really prolific at something.. Needlepoint or macrame or something equally useful.

Stay tuned for more carcinomic capers

Psycho Radio GaGa

The radiotherapy is very strange indeed. Tied down to a bed with your gimp mask on and pinned to the guerney. The feedback from the Chemo kind of hangs in your system making you feel like very spaced out most of the time and with the morphine and the radio on top it all gets seriously weird most of the time. Not sure what's going on.

Feeling pretty lost at the moment, unsure where I am or what is happening.

It's all I can do to get into London Bridge most days.

Got a week end off now from all treatments for a few days - hopefully I'll gain some equilibrium. Spooky as all fuck at the moment,

I forgot to mention that the poor woman couldn't sing a fucking note. Drove me nuts. Christ, if she could have held a tune Iwould have found something to sing with her. Naw - she was annoying because she was pish. Cancer is no excuse. I've got a right to say that .

Monopoly

The word treatment has the noun treat in it. Tractatio and convivium in Latin respectively. Not much in common there, so you would think that after learning the Mass in Latin and all those years of Virgil at St Pat's I might have clocked this. That should have been a wee alarm going off right there.

Chemo. It's sort of like the Bagpuss treatment. You get led in and told "Sit wherever you would like." by nice pally people Big comfy chairs with pillows line this room, so you look around and say. "That one"

Big sore needles, big bag - 6 hours plus stoppage time, Not bad

Then you sit about, read the paper and the novel you've brought with you. Trying to ignore that everyone else has or should have a good twenty five years on you, but at least everything else is good, this is comfy. Ride it

Then the fucking singing began.

Elderly African woman in the next chair is undergoing a similar procedure to me. Didn't seem distressed. Nodded and I think I got a "God Bless you " from her when I sat down. Not sure.

She started off by humming. Awright.. Annoying but I can still read, Onwards and up wards to full Jesus gonna take me home belting African Gospel. Okay - she's elderly, probably afraid, is in a strange place, I know, hospitals are strange places, solitary places. So I thought Mart, leave her to  her comfort.
20 minutes later I was up at the nurses desk saying Michelle, can you not shut her up. I've got fucking cancer too - she doesn't have a monopoly

Can't sleep.

Tomorrow: Monopoly 2: No More Oliver Postgate, (Dir Rob Zombie)

Hospital Spooks

When was the last time you were in hospital ?  When was the last time you spent 48 hours in bed alone in a strange place with little contact with the outside world apart from a tv with only crap tv channels. The only visits you get are those accompanied by a huge machine to check your blood pressure and temperature. Now I'm not complaining about lack of visitors, hospitals are weird places. They sap you. Becks came to visit after the procedure and it felt awkward - I felt awkward with the person I'm closest to on the planet. Michal came to pick me up on Friday and we had to hang about for a couple of hours for a doctor to see me before I was discharged. Mike and I have been meeting for a drink, sometimes more, sometimes less, but at least once a week  for over 25 years and have never run out of things to talk about and we seized up. "Fuck it Mike - read the paper, I won't be offended." Something about hospitals..

The afternoon I was admitted was the wettest and fiercest weather I've seen in years. None of it bode well. Straight out of Hammer horror. I checked in, had my valve implanted (they stick this two way valve in your lower arm in order to take blood out or put stuff in - saves your veins from mulitple injections - pretty clever, but fucking uncomfortable) then did a bunk. I wandered around Borough High Street in the pouring rain until  came across a bar I used to use years ago called the Ship.

Factor the morphine into this. Pissing rain, old haunt, weird valve sticking out of my wrist and only diehard drinkers due to the weather, and the knowledge or rather the fear of the lack of knowledge of what was to come. It was the loneliest night of my life. Knowing that I had to return to this frankly spooky ward and that that this was, or could be my last drink, my last night as fit and reasonably healthy man.

There was only one other bloke in the ward - and he, thankfully, was pretty keen on privacy and not in the mood to be pals, which suited me. The strangest thing about it all was the sense of isolation.You've got your phone, you've got your tv, (which only served to remind why I don't watch it at home) but essentially you are alone. Lots of time to reflect, lots of time to worry.

The actual procedure was the usual production line. Queue up, scan your stomach, queue up, sedated, wake up uncomfortable and woozy. The thing sticking out of my stomach is painful and I'm constantly aware of it. I went into the West End yesterday as a baptism of fire - figured if I could hack it up there everything else would be a breeze. Fear of bumps and knocks that it will somehow be disloged and I will be left with undigested chocolate and cider spewing all over me. Fear of the pain of it being accidentaly ripped from my navel. Discomfort, self consciousness and shame. This thing is horrible. Right now the whole thing has me thinking about necking the morphine in one shot and saying goodbye.

I won't, of course. I have to see what fresh horror this thing throws at me. At least I have some new colours to add to my spectrum of pain

Nightwear

I figured that if I'm going to spend a few days in hospital that I should really buy a pair of pyjamas. Walking about the hospital in a pair of boxers and skanky old t - shirt won't wash. Being
 the cheapskate that I am, I tried Primark first. Brilliant, I wish I had the balls to wear them. Union Jack jammies, Packman jammies, even, and I shit you not, London Olympics Jim jams. If I had the chutzpah I would have run with it, but no, I settled for Marks& Spencers sensible jim jams -which, incidentally, I'm test driving now. I haven't worn pyjamas since I was about 12 and my girlfriend won't even kiss me - says it's creepy. Can't say I blame her - I feel like I'm 12.

Christ - this just keeps getting weirder

More carcinoma gags to follow

Jake the peg

I had anticipated a week free of hospital visits and was planning a few days in Krakow getting drunk with Michal, however my nutritionists (3 of them) had other ideas., so Tuesday sees me going into Guys for two nights while the fit my peg which will enable me to feed myself intravenously over the mouth plague weeks when I will be unable to eat. So they will open me up and fit this thing which will feel intrusive and I will be convinced that everyone knows it's there

Downside: Nil by mouth for fuck knows how long, weird thing sticking out of my navel and the frankly, creepy notion of feeding myself through a tube (It's all a bit reminiscent of The Human Centipede which if you haven't seen - you should. Just to remind yourself how fucking freakier than you some people are)

Upside: Intravenous Polish vodka and morphine

More cancer based japes to follow